Good Works in the City of Haven
by elle45
Summary: MODERN AU, no magic! Trevelyan has decided to run for Mayor of Haven, attempting to oust Madame de Fer from her long-held position. She wants Cullen Rutherford, a local legal aid attorney and former cop, to help her wrangle campaign volunteers. Neither of them is prepared for the fall-out of what was supposed to be a simple campaign.
1. Chapter 1

Cullen left his car door open and slumped down in his seat. His old gray suit, soft with age, was warm enough without steeping in his boiling hot car. Everything sitting there had seen better days- the ancient printer sitting in the leg area of the passenger seat, the beat up and patched leather briefcase, the old Dodge Charger he bought used back when he was still on the force.

The old addict sitting here in this front seat has seen better days, too.

It wasn't that Cullen loved or hated his job, really. Despite the way "being passionate" was the most often-stated requirement to do what he did, he didn't know anyone who woke up excited to work in the Legal Aid office. But he was good at it, and more importantly he needed to do it. It was his chance to atone for all the things he'd done, and all the things he'd been, back when he was a police officer.

It was just damned depressing most of the time.

He slowly rubbed his temples, wondering if his blossoming headache was the result of a long day without enough water, the result of cooking here in his suit sitting in the sunshine like an idiot, or if it was going to blossom into one of his withdrawal migraines.

Technically, his job was to help people in danger of being evicted illegally, and provide free legal representation to them. The Legal Aid office was an institution, funded by a portion of all court fees. His salary was small, less than he'd made as a police officer, but that's public interest work for you. Their office saw a lot more domestic violence victims seeking some kind of protective order than it could really handle, so he often helped out with those as well. And most of the people who called in for help didn't actually have a legal case, but they were still about to be homeless. So he helped them find a shelter, a church that would put them up in a hotel for the night, a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, a social worker- whatever it was that they needed. Most of them weren't educated, and they didn't know the system. But he knew the system like the back of his hand. So while he was only supposed to work thirty seven hours a week, because he certainly wouldn't be paid for more time than that, he often put in sixty hour weeks. More if he had a trial coming up.

And of the four lawyers in the Legal Aid office—four of them to serve all of Haven, a city with thousands of impoverished citizens—he was the only one without children. Karen was supposed to go down to the hospice today and write up wills for the people there. But her toddler got sick, and Cullen volunteered to go down there for her.

So he'd spent the day talking to the dying about the children they hadn't seen in years, the brothers and sisters they hoped were still alive somewhere, and soothing their fears that the government really wouldn't take the pittance they had to leave to their heirs. The people he'd talked to today were all worried about inheritance taxes, despite the fact that inheritance taxes really only kick in after the first million and none of them had two pennies to rub together. But inheritance taxes were on the news lately.

Slowly, Cullen turned the car on, and rolled his windows down. The air conditioning hadn't worked in his Charger for months now. He'd been tinkering with it, but it was probably time to take it in to a real mechanic. Whenever he had time while a mechanic was open. Why couldn't there be twenty-four hour mechanics?

He drove back to the office. His office building used to be a school, but was shut down when a new school was built down the road. There may or may not be an issue with asbestos, different people had different thoughts on that. But it had been converted into low-rent offices, and they shared the building with several non-profits. The code-locked door was probably the newest thing in the building, and it was absolutely necessary. The neighborhood wasn't the best—he knew it well from his days on the force—and some of their clientele weren't exactly stable.

Cullen hauled the ancient printer and his briefcase up three flights of linoleum-covered stairs, past the flickering fluorescent lights over the Learning Disability Association of Haven, and down the hall to his office. No one was there.

No real surprise there- it was well past six, and everyone else had families to get back to. He put his burdens down, dutifully drank two full glasses of water in the hopes that it would help with his headache, and went to check his messages. The office's number was listed in the phone book, and people who needed all kinds of help—not just legal- often called just to see if there was anything they could do to assist. He had two messages, one from a genuinely insane client he had represented in the past and one from a man who was afraid he was going to be foreclosed upon and lose his house. He called the man first, and explained that although the Legal Aid office couldn't really help him, he did have some legal rights- which Cullen patiently explained. He then called his client and talked her down from the, thankfully metaphorical, ledge she was on.

Just another day in paradise, really.

But the water didn't help his headache at all. He changed, hanging his suit up in one of the lockers that had never been removed from his office, and putting on some of the gym clothes he kept there. He made himself a protein shake in the dinky little office kitchen, and then drove himself out to his gym.

It wasn't anything fancy. It was just a little twenty-four-seven gym with a low monthly rate that banked on people joining and then pretending they were actually going to come work out. It reminded him of the precinct gym, no frills, no classes, just weights and treadmills and a couple stationary bikes and rowing machines. He did his usual routine, easy warm-up, thirty minute run, a hundred fifty body weight squats, seventy push-ups, seventy sit ups, twenty-five pull ups, fifteen minutes on the rowing machine and then on to the weights. He tried not to make eye contact with anyone, as per usual- he'd had a few conversations with the other habitual gym rats, and they tended to have advice. But he wasn't here to look a certain way, and he wasn't here to be a bodybuilder, he was here for the endorphins. And he knew damn well how to hit the sweet spots where he felt loose, or where he felt good and worn out, depending. Today he went for feeling loose. He wanted to shake the air of the hospice out of his lungs.

Thankfully, it also helped his headache.

It was almost nine when he arrived home. He wanted nothing more than to lay down on his couch and play some mindless cell phone game until the hours melted and his eyes got heavy and he was finally tired enough to actually sleep.

But the house was anything but quiet.

Cullen pulled up to the curb, since the driveway was full, and stared at the lights over the back porch with something right next to despair. The sound of soft voices and laughter drifted out to him, as well as the scent of a wood fire. Varric was entertaining.

On a Thursday night.

Cullen dug through his gym bag until he found his phone. Sure enough he had several notifications. His dwarven friend hadn't decided to throw a party without telling him, it was Cullen's own fault for not checking his phone.

_Curly, Josephine is coming over to talk something over and she said she was bringing wine. Help._

_Nevermind, it's not what I thought. She brought your buddy Cassandra, though, so quit saving the city and get over here. I'm surrounded by beautiful women and they're talking politics at me. I have done nothing to deserve this._

_Curly, you're a shit member of modern society. Answer your texts._

Damnit.

It would be rude to just go in without saying hi. Rude to ignore his friend's texts more than he already had. But he couldn't just wander in sweating and starving and talk to whoever it was that he had over.

Maybe if it was just Cassandra. But he'd known Josephine in law school, and she would have comments.

There was only one thing for it. He had to sneak into his apartment, shower, throw on some jeans, and make a brief appearance.

Cullen turned off his car, and went the long way around the front of the house to the garage, hoping no one would see him. He went up the side stairs and into his apartment. It was originally a mother-in-law apartment, just a tiny living space over Varric's garage. But Varric was nice enough to rent it out to him while he was in law school, and after he graduated he just stuck around. Varric didn't seem to mind. According to him, without Cullen it was just going to sit empty anyway.

The place was spartan and sparkling, spiffed up over countless restless three-am cleaning sessions. Cullen threw his dirty clothes in the hamper, took a record-quick shower, and shaved his five-o'clock shadow while he was in there.

Beautiful women, Varric said.

Even if it was just Josephine and Cassandra, he didn't want to look scraggly. They might comment or, worse, be _concerned_.

So he took a moment with his hair, making an effort to tame his curls. And he took the time to put on proper loafers, worn as they were, and to select one of his freshly ironed shirts to tuck into his jeans. The last time Josephine saw him, she'd remarked that he looked _haggard_ since taking the job at Legal Aid. He wanted to make damn sure he didn't look haggard now.

The stairs down out of his one-room apartment creaked alarmingly when he jogged down them. The sound of voices and laughter, mostly feminine, was still drifting to his ears. A line of woodsmoke drifted up from the wide back deck, weaving up among and through the fairy lights Varric had strung there.

It wasn't just Josephine and Cassandra.

Varric sat on his back deck with no less than _four_ women, all tall, well dressed, and at first glance all entirely stunning. Cullen's step slowed on the stairs, unsure what to make of the strangers. But it was too late. They'd spotted him.

"Curly!" Varric hopped up, congenial and convivial as ever. His grin practically stretched from ear to ear. The woman next to Varric tilted her head, a smile spreading across her lips. She looked. . . expensive, mostly, her dark hair falling in perfectly curled clouds around her face. He didn't know exactly what the word was for the kind of slacks or blouse she wore, but they looked nice. Not just pretty-nice, but money-nice. In contrast, her feet swung bare off the edge of Varric's deck furniture, floating above a pair of discarded heels.

"That cannot be your real name," the woman said. She looked him up and down, and he felt heat rise in his cheeks and ears under her gaze. Her eyes were tilted, as if she were made to smile mischeviously, and her lips certainly lived up to that promise.

"No, no. This is Cullen Rutherford, my friend. He also happens to live over my garage," Varric said, refusing as usual to call him either a roommate – _we're not in college, Curly _– or a tenant. "Curly's just a nickname. You may have noticed I like nicknames. Anyway, can I get you a drink?"

"Ah." Cullen glanced from Varric to the array of wine glasses and the big empty ceramic platter on the low table in the middle of the small crowd. "Sure."

"He's the one I told you about, Tessie," Josephine said, cryptically. "From my torts class."

Well, that was concerning. Cullen tried desperately to remember if he'd ever done anything noteworthy in that class. He couldn't think of anything. But the stranger was nodding, smiling—crap, seriously, what could Josephine have said?

Varric put a glass of red wine in his hand. Cullen took a sip, blindly, just for something to do. As soon as the wine hit his stomach he was very aware that he hadn't had anything since breakfast but that protein shake.

"Very impressive," the other stranger said, just as cryptically. She held out a pale hand for him to shake. She looked as cold and perfect as a doll, her hair glinting blood red in the light from the fire pit. He took her hand, almost automatically. She had an extremely brisk handshake. "I'm Leliana."

"Nice to meet you."

"And I'm Taralyn Trevelian," the woman with the dark curls said. She held out her hand, too. Her skin was warm, her hands surprisingly calloused despite her immaculate manicure. Her smile widened. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

"At last?"

"Josie said you were a policeman?" she said. She let go of his hand. He fought to not flex his fingers after she released them.

"What exactly did you say about me?" he said to Josephine. She smiled that enigmatic smile of hers. She looked prim and proper as always, her conservative suit smooth over her neatly crossed legs. Josephine, unlike him, had gone into a very lucrative private practice after law school. Last time he'd spoken to her she was handling some incredibly complex business merger with millions of dollars on the line.

"I believe Cassandra mentioned your past in law enforcement, actually," Josephine said. "What I said was, if you want a handle on the situation of the impoverished in Haven, you need to talk to Cullen."

"Oh." That was a little bit less intimidating. Cullen sat down, glad he'd taken the time to make himself halfway presentable. This little gathering had a very strange air to it. "I'm just one of several who work in my office, and we're hardly the only place in the city that grapples with poverty. You could ask anyone you see begging for change, too, if you're curious what it's like out there."

"I'm more interested in policy approaches," Taralyn Trevelian started, but Leliana stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

"Taralyn is running for mayor. We plan on announcing it next week," she said.

Cullen blew out his breath, slowly, and relaxed. Now the odd air of the gathering made sense. It didn't quite feel like a party because it wasn't a party, not really. Except Varric was giving him some kind of arch look that he didn't at all know how to interpret.

"If you're running for mayor, why stop off here? Shouldn't you be out talking with Chantry representatives?" he asked, the words halfway out of his mouth before he thought better of them.

"Madame de Fer has been Mayor for more than a decade, and she's got an immense amount of Chantry support," Leliana said, matter-of-factly. "No one could beat her at her own game. But that's not the point, is it? We want a city that's better than it is now. That's not possible without challenging a lot of things the Chantry takes for granted."

"I might get their support on improved after-school programs, but I doubt I could get their blessing to expand the Women's Health Center," Trevellian mused. She favored him with a warm smile. "Besides, Josie says that Varric always knows who she needs to know. And how could I pass up an opportunity to meet the author of Hard in Hightown?"

"She's a fan, Curly. It curls my toes to hear her say it," Varric chuckled, elbowing Cullen in the ribs. Cullen wasn't sure if he was just slow after his long day, or if everyone else had been drinking too much wine to make sense. But he was definitely missing something.

"So why run for Mayor?" he asked, taking another sip of his wine. With that question, the dam broke. Over the next hour he was treated to an intensive run-down of all the things this stranger thought were wrong with Haven- not enough shelters for the homeless, not enough support for victims of domestic violence- childcare was too expensive, loan sharks were too rampant, felons were restricted from every job imaginable and so they had no choice but to steal or deal drugs, the Chantry-run charities were not inclusive enough of marginalized populations. Halfway through, he found himself nodding along. Trevellian had a plan to address each and every problem she listed. She even seemed to have some idea of where the money for all this social improvement would come from. By the time she was done talking, he would have voted for her if he had to walk over hot coals to do it.

Of course, by the time she was done talking, he'd drained three cups of wine and his stomach had long since stopped bothering to tell him that he was overdoing it.

It was clear that she'd gathered a good team, too- Leliana, who turned out to be a former Chantry lay-sister and was once the personal assistant to the late Divine Justinia, was running her campaign. Josephine, with all her high-profile business contacts, was apparently an old friend of Trevellian's, and she was fund-raising like the pro she was. Cassandra, who it turned out had known Leliana for years, was a friendly presence in the prosecutor's office. She probably knew every minor city official down to their middle name and their favorite lunch, her help wasn't to be dismissed.

And now here they were. Trying to sweet-talk Varric into talking them up to all his many, many friends and business associates. It was working, too. He'd never seen Varric so serious as when he was listening to Taralyn Trevellian talk.

But, eventually, she wound down, and the conversation started to limp, and Leliana arranged Ubers to come pick up herself and her fellow conspirators. Cullen offered to walk them down to where the cars would come to meet them. They were all surprisingly nimble in their heels on the gravel drive, though he was alert and ready to catch any of them should they stumble. It turned out to not be necessary. Josephine and Cassandra shared a car, apparently since they lived close together, and Leliana's car arrived soon after.

He was left with Taralyn Trevellian, a woman he hadn't even known existed four hours ago, standing in the moonlight and smiling up at him.

He clamped his jaw shut on a thousand inane and ridiculous comments. _It's a nice night for an evening. Gravel seems smooth today. These leaves sure look like leaves, don't they?_

But unfortunately he couldn't think of a single thing to say that wasn't ridiculous.

"It's not just Varric, you know. Cass said I needed to talk to you," she said, after a long and deeply awkward silence. He took a half step back, crossing his arms in half-conscious defense.

"What about?" he asked. And thank the Maker, his voice came out sounding perfectly normal. She tilted her head, the gleam of her eyes barely visible in the dim light. Her full, soft-looking lips curled at the edges, as though she were enjoying some private joke. He had an entirely irrational, ridiculous, _innappropriate _urge to kiss the edges of her mouth until that ghost of a smile widened in delight.

"You work with every non-profit in Haven. You know them. You know the volunteers, the people who actually draw a paycheck, the committees, everybody," she said. He found himself nodding agreement. "I want you to help me run my campaign. To co-orinate my volunteers."

"What? Why me?"

"You're perfect," she said, solemnly. The words seemed to ricochet around his mind, pinging in his soul and across every nerve ending in his body.

"So what do you think?" she prompted, because apparently he'd been standing there staring at her wordlessly like some brain-dead beast.

"Of course," he said, "Yeah. I could do that."

"That's wonderful news," she said, and her smile bloomed.

_What the hell have I just gotten myself into?_


	2. Chapter 2

Taralyn rang the doorbell of the converted school building. According to Google maps, this was the Legal Aid office. But it hardly looked like any kind of office, much less the kind of place lawyers would work. She juggled two tall coffee cups, hopeful she wouldn't spill all over her sleek skirt. She remembered the veritable army of lawyers that always seemed to be hovering around her father's businesses, and none of them would have worked a day in a place like this.

"Can I help you?" The voice coming out of the tinny intercom sounded irritable. Taralyn grimaced, glancing around for a camera. She didn't see one.

"Yes, I hope so. I don't have an appointment, but- my name is Taralyn Trevellian. I'm here to see Cullen Rutherford?" she said. There it was, the little camera that would let them check their visitors. It was half-hidden by a clumped and ancient spider web.

"He with that Legal Aid?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Try the door now."

Juggling the coffee again, Taralyn tried the door. It stuck, briefly, then swung open so fast she tottered on her heels. She glanced at the camera. Was it her business-casual clothes that got her in, or the coffee, or could just anyone drop his name and come in? It hardly seemed like much of a security system. But then, maybe the idea was to prevent loiterers, or random people from the neighborhood from coming in.

"Thank you," she said, unsure if the person manning the intercom could even hear her. The room she was in now clearly used to be a school lobby. A little sign hung over one of the frosted-glass doors, proclaiming it held some kind of tax preparation service.

Well, it had to be in here somewhere.

She picked a direction at random and started walking, her heels clacking decisively on the linoleum. The old school building was set up in a circle. The Legal Aid office was clearly not on the first floor, so she tried the second. There, she had more luck. A little sign stuck out over an old wood and glass door, proclaiming that it belonged to the Legal Aid Society of Haven.

She knocked, and there was no answer. So she just went in. The room behind the door was small, half full of an ancient printer, and only occupied by one person. Not Cullen.

The elderly, stout lady seated behind her beat-up desk watched Taralyn approach with detatched curiosity. But she said nothing. Taralyn cleared her throat. The old woman still said nothing. She just stared.

"Hello," Taralyn said, trying out a smile on her unreceptive audience. No reaction. "I'm looking for Cullen Rutherford?"

"We can only take clients who meet the income guidelines for our grant," the old woman informed her. Taralyn's smile widened, placatingly.

"No, I'm- I'm not a client. I'm just a visitor," she said. The old woman regarded her silently for another long moment, then sighed, and creaked her way up to her feet. She shuffled past Taralyn toward the door.

"Follow me, then," she said, begrudgingly. She led the way back down the main hallway, into a small suite of rooms that had no label, and finally to a door in that suite that said only 103 over the top. She rapped briskly on the door, then opened it without waiting for any confirmation from the inhabitant of the office on the other side.

"This lady says she's here to see you?" the old woman said, without preamble.

Maker's breath, he was even more unfairly attractive in the light of day.

Cullen's office was crowded with books and files, piled high on every surface. There was something dingy and depressing about the space- maybe something to do with the tiny narrow windows spilling light into the room, or the grime that seemed to collect in the corners, or the wall of lockers that had clearly been there when the room was used as a school. But the man behind the ancient, huge metal desk was anything but dingy. Sunlight caught the gold in his hair, giving him a near-halo.

"I. . . Ms. Trevellian," he said, rising to his feet. The room didn't seem big enough to accomodate those broad shoulders. A tiny little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, on the opposite side from his scar. "Thank you, Nancy. I'll take it from here."

"Yep," the old woman said. She shuffled off.

He looked at her. She looked at him. It really wasn't fair for him to have both that hair and that jawline.

But she came here with a mission in mind. She couldn't get distracted by fine features.

"Good morning, Cullen," she said, sweeping into the room. She held out one of the coffees. "You seem like a man who takes his coffee black. Do you like cold brew?"

He seemed like a man who drank nothing but protein shakes, just to look at him, but he took the coffee anyway. His tiny smile widened a bit when their fingertips brushed.

"Thank you," he said, then he cleared his throat. Unlike every other lawyer she'd ever met, his office didn't have chairs on the visitor side of his desk. Probably because there wasn't room, between the filing cabinets and the lockers. So she went around the other side and leaned companionably against the desk itself. After an uncertain moment, he sat in his chair, looking up at her.

The light caught his eyes, and she realized they weren't dark brown as she had originally thought. They were like molten gold, or like sunlight through whiskey, matching the sun-god glint off his hair.

"Can I help you with something, Ms. Trevellian?" he asked.

"Well." She glanced down at her own coffee cup. She needed to gather her thoughts before he took her for a simpleton. "Last night, you agreed to help with my campaign-"

"Changed your mind already?"

"No, but, maybe you have? I wanted to give you the chance to say yes or no when you hadn't been drinking. It's a lot to ask," she admitted. He settled back in his creaky chair, watching her curiously. Andraste preserve me, look at those thighs.

"I tend to keep my word," he said, his tone very mild. Oh, good, now she'd insulted him. "I've already spoken with my supervisor about participating in your campaign- there are some fairly strict rules as to when and how we're allowed to be involved in politics. The short version is, I'm off the clock right now. And I'm off the clock any time I do a single thing for your campaign. Lunchtime and after-hours only."

"Thank you." That didn't seem like the right thing to say, but it also seemed like something she should say, in the face of that. She remembered Josephine's stories about him in law school, how they'd competed for the top spot in one of their classes. Anyone who could compete with Josephine at all would have to be really smart. He was clearly not working in this dingy little office because he didn't have any other choice. "I truly appreciate your support. Are you. . . what is it you want to come out of this? What part of my platform appealed to you?"

"You talk like you'll change the whole world," he said, and there was something soft in his voice and his eyes that made her whole body tingle. "Every day I see people who thought they made all the right choices, and they still ended up in a place no one would ever want to be. Homeless, or nearly, sometimes starving, sometimes on the run from abusive partners- and that's just the people that actually call in. With better resources allocated to a safety net for everyone, more money for the shelters and better training for the police, we could make Haven a truly safe place to live. Even if you didn't accomplish everything you set out to do, just having a person in power who believes these things need to change would move so many obstacles out of the way of progress. In just a year, you could-"

He stopped, cutting himself off. His eyes flinched down from hers, and his smile twisted into somethign rueful.

"Forgive me," he said. "I doubt you came here to listen to a lecture."

"Well, no," she admitted. "But if you have one prepared, I'd love to hear it."

There it was again. That softness in his eyes, the genuine warmth in his smile. She felt herself beaming back. But he looked away, the corners of his eyes tightening, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

"There's. . . a lot to do in the world as it is, before it can be changed," he said. As if on cue, his phone rang. She couldn't help but laugh.

"Here," she said, fishing a business card out of her purse. She plucked a pen off his desk and jotted down her cell phone number on the back. His phone rang again. "That's my cell phone on the back there. And my e-mail address on the front, both Leliana and I monitor that account. Text or e-mail me when you might be available after-hours? To discuss the campaign."

"Of course," he said. He took the card from her. And it was purely her imagination, surely it was, that the brush of their fingertips was more than just accidental. He glanced at the ringing phone. "Can you find your way back out?"

"Not a problem at all," she assured him. To emphasize the point, she stood up straight, strode over to the door, and bid him farewell with a cheerful, impersonal little wave.

Not too bad, for the first time giving her phone number to an attractive man since the divorce.

Of course, it was just business. Had to be just business. Because there was just no way that a man like that was single, and if he was, there was just no way it wasn't because there was something horribly wrong with him.

And anyway, what she wanted him to do was help her organize her volunteers. Nothing else.

But still. She pulled out her phone, and flitted down to Josephine's number. She'd known Josie since grade school. Josie wouldn't lie to her.

_I just got done checking in with my new door-to-door volunteer manager, Josie, and I have to ask you- what's wrong with him?_

_What do you mean? Did he behave oddly?_

_No, not at all. Just- ok I'll be blunt here- he's seeing someone, right?_

_Why, Tessie! What a thing to ask! And here I thought you'd sworn off men._

Taralyn hissed, hitting the off button on the side of her phone. Useless.

Well, it didn't matter anyway. She wasn't going to ask him - or anybody- out, and if he said anything flirtatious to her she'd simply explain that she wasn't on the market. But that wasn't going to be a problem, at all, because this was just her bouncing around in her own crazy head. She was just reacting to the first truly attractive man she'd spoken with since her divorce. He hadn't said a single thing to indicate he was interested.

Taralyn put her phone away, and strode down the hall with decisive clacks of her high heels. She had a lot of work to do before she was ready to announce her candidacy for mayor. And a lot on the line. If she won, she could make sure that no one else went through the hell she had.

And if she lost, she was putting herself in the news, in the public eye, for nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Cullen wondered, not for the first time, if lack of sleep could permanently rewire a human brain.

As per usual since he began his new not-a-job, corralling volunteers to pound the pavement and sit in booths at public events to talk about Trevellian's political plans, he hadn't really been able to sleep. All of his usual nightmares were back, with a vengeance and with detailed, terrible additions. No doubt it was his subconscious protesting the extra work. He was surely stretched thin as it was.

The endorphins from an hour's workout were worth two hours of sleep, at least. It was a trade he'd made many mornings. Including this morning, when he woke at four in a cold sweat from a dream of Serena Amell's decapitated corpse following him around. He knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, so he'd gone to the gym instead. And wound up in his office at six in the morning.

Happily, that meant he had plenty of time to get set up and ready for this dinner of Josephine's at five. Getting in early meant he could, technically, leave a little early too.

He'd never taken advantage of that before.

Josephine chose a sleekly upscale downtown restaurant for this "little get-to-know-you party," as she described it. She was standing off to the side, clearly having a polite but intense conversation with a local business magnate. Across the gleaming, dark hardwood floors, Leliana was holding court with a large group he didn't really recognize. She seemed a different person in this company than the cold, intense personality he'd gotten to know over the last several weeks. A bright, vivacious doppelganger had clearly taken her place.

As a former cop, her switch made the hair on the back of his neck itch. But that was nothing compared to the surprise that was Taralyn Trevellian.

"Do you enjoy hiking, Cullen?" one of the lawyers gathered near him asked. Awkwardly, he shifted his attention away from the other members of their little group and back to the people he was supposed to be charming. Six of them, four women and two men, had decided to gather uncomfortably close to him. He stood with his back to the wall, practically trapped, while they ranged around him with their drinks on the little circular tables scattered all along this wall.

Which brought him back to his original distracting question. Could lack of sleep rewire a brain? Had his chronic sleeplessness rewired his? Because every one of the local pillars of the community gathered around him was standing too close, leaning in too often, and seemed to know something he didn't.

"I, ah, don't often get the chance," he admitted, responding after an uncertain beat to the councilwoman's question. She favored him with a shy smile, looking up at him through her dark eyelashes.

"We should go hiking sometime then," she said. Cullen did his best to smile back at her. It felt strained.

"I'm afraid I have very little free time, these days," he said, because that seemed like a much nicer thing to say than _Sure but I don't know you. _Behind the councilwoman, one of the men in their little clump snorted, softly. He regarded Cullen with the lazy predatory gaze of a big cat. The councilwoman shot them both a glare- what had Cullen missed? He had tried to be polite.

"Perhaps you'd have time to engage in a pass-time closer to home, then," the man said. His lips quirked under his impressive handlebar mustache. "Do you play chess?"

"I do," Cullen said, relaxing into a real smile for the first time all evening. He definitely wanted to come across as personable- that was the whole point of this evening's dinner, after all, was to present their campaign in the best light- but he didn't have any hobbies. Not really. And he couldn't actually talk about his cases at work. But chess he could talk about. "Though I haven't played in years. Are you suggesting a game, Mister. . .?"

"Pavus," the man said smoothly. Now the councilwoman was absolutely pouting. Why? "Dorian Pavus, at your service. And yes, I am in fact the house scion of _those _Pavus's, but don't let that prejudice you in my favor."

"Don't you have studying to do? A dissertation to write or some such?" the other nearby man asked, irritably. Dorian twirled his mustache meditatively, regarding him.

"Why?" he asked, at last. "Don't tell me you play, Reginald. I would have thought chess was rather highbrow for you."

"There you are!" Taralyn swept down in their midst, decisive as a hawk touching down among a flock of chickens. She favored the assembled people with a bright smile, and placed her hand on Cullen's arm. "I've been looking for you. One of our volunteers has called, he got a flat tire on his way back from getting those brochures, and I'm hopeful you have a phone number for one of his friends that can help-"

Without missing a beat, she tugged gently at his wrist, where it was tucked in against his other arm folded across his chest. He unfolded as though the spot she touched contained a pull tab.

"Excuse us for just a moment. I'm so sorry," Taralyn said to the little crowd. She started off toward the hallway. And she didn't even have to tell him to follow. Which brochures was she talking about? And who would have called her, instead of him? His phone didn't ring, he would have felt it.

"Who was it that-"

"Hold on," she said, holding up a hand. She led him down the hall, past what looked to be a server station, and into a little alcove overlooking the back stairs. When she turned around, her eyes were lit in her most mischievous smile.

"So who broke down and why-"

"Oh. Cullen. Nothing happened. It was just an excuse to get you out of there," she said. His world seemed to tilt for a moment.

"Why?" he managed.

"You looked utterly miserable. Trapped, even. There's no shame in making an excuse and retreating to the hall for a moment, you know," she said. Her smile was infectious. He found himself smiling back.

"I'm afraid I have no talent for that kind of social . . . event." He rubbed the back of his neck. Around her he felt almost like a teenager again. All gangly limbs and nervous laughter. "I'm sorry. I'll try to do better."

"Well, it would be slightly less awkward if you'd just pick one or tell them you're taken," she said.

What?

"What does that have to- why would- pick one for what?" he blathered. Taralyn laughed, hiding her giggles behind her cupped hands. Her tilted eyes glinted with delight.

"Oh my. You don't know? They're hitting on you, Mr. Rutherford," she twinkled. Under any other circumstances he'd be delighted to be the cause of that much mirth. But right now it was just making his face hot and his palms sweaty.

"That's not. . . all of them? Don't be unreasonable," he snapped. She just giggled more. He burned from his throat to his ears. "Maker's breath."

"Now, now. All you have to do is tell them you're seeing someone," she said. She lowered her hands and tilted her head back, favoring him with that tilted grin. "You are, aren't you? Seeing someone."

"I. . . no." He was grateful for the dim light. Maybe she wouldn't see his blush. It had to be undignified, for a man of his age to get so flustered.

"Whyever not?"

"What?"

"Are you just not that interested in the fairer sex? Or the unfair sex, either one. I don't judge. Or are you married to your job?" she asked. Was it possible they were actually talking about this?

"No, I. . . perfectly interested," he stammered. He was making an absolute fool of himself. "Maker's breath, can we talk about something else?"

"If we must," she said, skipping lightly over his absolute humiliation. Her eyes sparkled. "But you do blush so prettily."

"Ms. Trevellian," he bit out, agonized. She actually laughed.

"What I do is mention, casually, that I have a beau. I never say his name, though, because then I might say a different name at different times and show myself a liar," she says. He opens his mouth to ask why she would lie- she's a perfectly engaging and attractive woman, there's no reason she should not have any number of people falling at her feet if she wanted. But that's the exact question he doesn't want her to ask him, so he can't say it.

"Thank you," he said, instead, "for coming to my rescue back there. You were right. I was a bit out of my depth. I think it will be easier now that I understand what they wanted."

"Not a problem. Not at all. I do so love being the dragon-slayer," Taralyn said, lightly. She patted his arm, companionably. The spot she touched seemed to burn, and he felt heat climbing up the back of his neck. "Beats the crap out of being a maiden fair, you know?"

Thankfully, she didn't seem to require a response. Because he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

She left him standing in the hallway, trying to gather his thoughts. And calm the blush that was surely staining every inch of exposed skin.

The realization that absolutely none of the people assembled would be interested in him at all if they really knew him was sobering enough. No one wants to date a recovering addict. Not that he had room in his life for anyone else, anyway.

And that was all besides the things he did when he was a cop. Beating down suspects. Backing his superiors when they made the wrong call. Or the racist call. Or the flat-out illegal call. Because he trusted them, because he thought the alternative was worse. Until he realized just how bad it had gotten.

Until he was standing outside a little chapel, watching it burn. Listening to his fellow officers tell the screaming, sobbing parishioners- mostly immigrants from outside Haven- that there was nothing to be done for the people who had been inside. That it wasn't worth investigating. That it probably wasn't arson, and either way if the bereaved didn't stop complaining they'd be run in for obstruction of justice.

And then it happened.

That old man, tears running down his cheeks, shoved one of the officers. Barnes. Screaming about his grandchild. Who had been in the chapel. And Barnes, his face twisted up in rage, and he tackled the old man to the ground and-

_Not helping, Rutherford_, he told himself. He made himself take a deep breath. And another. _I'm not there. I'm here. Five things I can see- bit of old railing, shoddy picture, nice carpet, armoire type furniture thing, my own hand shaking in the dark. Five things I can smell. . ._

He ran through the old exercise, making himself come back to the moment. The present moment. Where no one was hurt, or bleeding, or in danger. Where he was doing all he could to make this city better.


End file.
